Belly Full of Chips
by Aris24
Summary: Sherlock and John have just wrapped up their latest case. Both are wet and tired and John assumes hungry despite what Sherlock may claim to the contrary. On their way home, Sherlock smells something delicious and a post case binge ensues... Hunger kink, belly kink, mild stuffing, yum... Johnlock if you read it that way. Perhaps early days of a budding romance. A bit fluffy.


**Note: Inspired by this lovely thing: post/58818625033/might-i-tempt-you-to-a-fourth-por tion**

John was tired, and a bit hungry, and more than a bit cross. Currently he was standing beside his mad detective of a flatmate in the pouring rain as the man rattled off the last of a series of deductions. Detective Inspector Lestrade, was nodding, doing his best to keep up with Sherlock's rapid explanations of what had lead them here.

"I had realized some time ago that it had to have been Mr. Boscomb all along. There were really very obvious clues starting with the make of his shoes and the pocket handkerchief," said Sherlock, reaching out one foot to prod at the bundle currently curled up on the wet tarmac with his shoe. "And I knew from our previous conversation with his wife that he had a mistress, and really after that it was simple to get his location out of her once she was informed that she wasn't the only woman in his life. Simple really, people are so quick to turn on one another. It's remarkable anyone still believes in love."

"Yeah, okay, Sherlock, but do you have any evidence it was actually him?" asked Lestrade with just a bite of impatience in his voice. John thought he deserved a medal. Really, the rain wasn't showing any sign of slowing up. The bundle on the pavement groaned.

"Yes," said Sherlock, bending down to reach into the coat pocket of the bundle that was now squirming against its bonds. "Here, a receipt for his recent bank deposit which you will notice matches perfectly with that of the money stolen from the late Ms. Leweski's home at the time of her death. This man is undoubtedly her murderer. You can confirm by examining his gun."

Lestrade nodded and called over his shoulder for another officer to help hoist the criminal to his feet and process him. "Well, thanks for helping us clear that up, Sherlock," said Lestrade, looking a bit tired, but smiling all the same, "You too, John." He nodded to the both of them and turned to go back to his car.

John looked up at Sherlock through the rain. "Well… that's that then, yeah? Do you fancy a take away or-"

Sherlock snorted and whipped around, his hands stuffed far into his pockets and his head bowed against the rain. "Not hungry just now, John," he said dismissively. John rolled his eyes and did his best to keep up with the detective's longer strides.

"Sherlock, you haven't eaten in almost three days!" sputtered John, "If you're not feeling hungry, then it's just because your stomach has started eating itself since you've refused to feed it."

Sherlock gave a low hum that didn't sound like he was really listening. His mind was still racing away on the case apparently, checking the knots at the ends to see if there were more in need of being tied up. John sighed. At least they weren't too far from Baker Street. He might be able to coax some soup or a bit of toast into the man once he settled down.

They had just turned the corner and were walking past Speedy's when Sherlock stopped dead, halting his mumbled case diatribe with a soft, "_Oh._"

"What's the matter?" asked John, skidding to a halt just before colliding with the detective and looking up at him curiously.

"Chips."

"What?"

"_Chips_, John," Sherlock repeated reverently, eyes actually fluttering closed as he turned his head to catch the smells drifting out from between the doors. John could have sworn he heard the detective's stomach rumble.

"Yeah, I think they might be closing up, though," said John, looking into the empty shop. The lights were still on of course but- Sherlock swept past him and wrenched the door open. John shook his head, and followed him inside resignedly. Really what they could both do with was a cuppa and a change of clothes.

Sherlock had marched up to the counter, John joining his side just as Sherlock made his order.

"Two baskets of chips," he said firmly to the attendant, "Extra salt."

"Sherlock, what?" began John, but stopped himself. Really though, if Sherlock wanted to eat he had no business complaining.

"Oh did you want some too? Make that three," said Sherlock without glancing at the doctor. John had to give a small huff of laughter as the attendant rolled her eyes and disappeared back through the kitchen doors. Sherlock slapped a few notes onto the counter and then stood there, positively quivering with his nostrils flared. The detective swayed slightly as another low growl sounded from his stomach. John was worried Sherlock would pass out and he'd have to catch him.

"Alright there, Sherlock?" asked the doctor, looking him over, "You seem a bit…"

"Hungry," was Sherlock's only curt reply. His long fingers tapped against the countertop.

At last the doors to the kitchen swung open and the attendant returned with the chips. They smelled fresh and hot, and admittedly wonderful. John looked at Sherlock in surprise as something that was quite surely a soft keen drifted past those cupid's bow lips. The detective snatched two of the baskets piled high with fresh chips and swept off to a table. John thanked the attendant and took his own to go join his flatmate. Sherlock was practically shaking as he looked down at the mound of chips before him. His lips were parted slightly, his breath coming somewhat heavily, eyes wide and dark.

"You don't have to deduce them before you eat them, you know," said John, sliding into his seat and chuckling lightly at Sherlock's enraptured expression, "I doubt there's much interest in learning about the life of the common potato."

Sherlock looked up fiercely, his eyes slightly glazed, the pupils dilated, looking even more wild due to the sopping wet curls sticking to his forehead. He blinked as if he had just woken from a trance and looked about to say something. It was odd to see a confused expression twisting his features for once.

"Nothing, go on and eat your chips before they get cold," said John with a chuckle picking up one of his own and popping it into his mouth. Sherlock's eyes followed the path of the golden chip, plucked up from its fellows by careful fingers and then inserted between John's lips. The detective definitely keened this time.

"Sherlock, are you-" But John would never finish that sentence. He gaped openly as Sherlock plowed into his first basket of chips with such gusto it was almost publically indecent. Hell it _was_ publically indecent. He dug in with both hands, long violinist's fingers selecting hot, crisp chips from the basket before cramming them unceremoniously into his mouth.

"Hmmph,"said Sherlock, eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy as the flavor hit his tongue, the hot soft potatoey innards burst free and flooded his mouth. He chewed quickly then sent in the next chip. Both hands working to find the next bite and tossing them into his mouth before the previous had even been properly swallowed. John was staring now, his own chips long forgotten.

Sherlock, having finished the first basket now, dragged one finger along the waxed paper to collect leftover salt and grease before sucking on it and pulling his second basket towards himself. Sherlock wasn't hungry. He was positively ravenous and ate with such abandon that John couldn't tear his eyes away. Sherlock set to work on his second mound of chips with equal fervor, humming softly as he made each and every chip disappear between his lips and down into his stomach. He reached the bottom of the second basket with no sign of slowing. The detective glared at the empty, grease streaked paper as if enraged that it dared to signal the end of his meal.

"More," he said gruffly, launching himself out of the booth and back to the register.

John blinked, hardly having realized that Sherlock had left. He was still staring at the two empty baskets and wondering where the hell Sherlock had put all that starch. The baskets hadn't exactly been small.

Then Sherlock was back with a third equally generous portion of chips. He slid back onto the bench and began stuffing his face once again. John couldn't honestly blame him, considering the man hadn't eaten in far too long. He also couldn't stop staring though. Sherlock was already nearly half way through his third batch, still picking up chip after chip with both hands to speed the process of getting every last one of them into his stomach. Wasn't he full yet?

John licked his lips unconsciously, watching as the third basket was nearing its end.

"Can I tempt you to a fourth portion, Sherlock?" he asked, raising a chip in his own fingers to offer and nudging his own portion of hardly touched food towards his friend. Sherlock looked up, one cheek still bulging as he chewed, a speck of escaped potato at the corner of his mouth, both hands delicately holding more chips. His eyes flicked over John's proffered basket then up to the chip in the doctor's fingers, regarding it cautiously like a wild animal. John saw his throat bob as he swallowed the mass of potato in his mouth before his lips parted reverently.

"Mmph, yes," was Sherlock's only reply before leaning over to pluck the food from John's fingers and then shoving the two chips in his hands into his mouth as well. As he chewed he pulled John's basket towards him and dumped the lot on his own dwindling supply. The detective hummed in satisfaction at his veritable mountain of chips and continued to eat, slowing just a bit now. Apparently the little pause was enough for Sherlock to realize how full he was getting. The man didn't stop eating though. John felt an odd swooping sensation in his stomach that he couldn't explain. The chips were still disappearing, the detective's jaw still working rhythmically, his throat still bobbing slowly. At long last, the basket was empty and Sherlock slouched back with a long sigh. He closed his eyes and slid a hand down to rest over the belly that was for once surprisingly round and visible beneath his shirt.

"Feeling better?" asked John with a small soft grin.

Sherlock raised his hand to muffle a belch into his wrist. He gave a low hum, eyes closed lazily, his hand rubbing at his stomach which was now gurgling for a very different reason. He looked completely peaceful and replete. John figured he'd probably move on to taking care of his sleep debt next and pass out in a carbohydrate induced coma.

"Ready to head home?" asked John, slipping on his still wet coat. His eyes seemed oddly drawn to Sherlock's middle, the sweet little bulge poking out from all the chips that had been crammed into it.

"Mm, can't move, John," complained Sherlock, his hand still trailing absently over his belly.

John laughed and slid out of his side of the booth. He moved over to tug at Sherlock's shoulder. "Come on now, it's only next door. We can get you to bed to sleep off that year's worth of chips you just inhaled. Come on."

"Full," protested Sherlock, with another soft burp and a sigh.

"Yeah I bet you are," said John, his voice coming out oddly husky, "I'll help you up. Come on."

Sherlock grunted as if asking him to move in his current state of overfull bliss was the worst atrocity known to mankind. Then his eyes slid open once again, and he looked up at John for a moment. He took a long breath and lugged himself to the edge of the bench, then took one of John's hands to pull himself to his feet with a low groan.

John lead the way back out of Speedy's and then up the stairs to the flat. Either the mass of food in Sherlock's belly was slowing his thought processes or his case exhaustion had finally caught up with him. In either case, he still hadn't let go of John's hand when the doctor let them inside and climbed the stairs up to their flat. John didn't mind.


End file.
